


Broken Mirrors

by Anonymous



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, possible trauma that may or may not involve Kevin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil is plagued by strange and unsettling recollections. He's not exactly sure what they are. Perhaps they are not recollections at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sometimes Cecil couldn't sleep. He'd stare into the shadows that pooled in the corners of the room, his skin prickling for a reason he could not quite place. This was particularly odd, as rationally there was nothing to fear except the invisible spiders, and the hooded figures, among many other natural and supernatural terrors. He was used to that though. That was just a part of life. It was perfectly natural and reasonable to be scared of those things.  
One thing it was not rational to be scared of was the dark.

Things in the dark, perhaps. Most supernatural assaults happened in darkness, everyone knew that. But the darkness itself should not, Cecil noted, feel as if it were pressing in on him. It should not feel as if it were pooling inside his lungs. He'd tried sleeping with the lights on once or twice, but he'd given up on them. They were just as bad. Even with the lights, darkness still lurked just beneath every object, still holding the same familiar yet implacable terror. This feeling would come and go throughout the days and nights and weeks, but recently it had been particularly oppressive. The shadows seemed to hold an edge; Dull, serrated blades of semiconscious recollection dragged themselves down the inside of his veins. They made him think of sharp teeth, and of skin patterned with shifting scars.

Eventually, exhaustion would pull him into broken moments of sleep plagued by vague, indistinct images; coiling shapes, crimson smudges, dull green light. The feeling of being watched by hollowed out eyes. A contorted, sharp-toothed smile. He'd wake the following morning clammy and exhausted, sometimes screaming. He'd sit up and take deep breaths for a few minutes, which helped to disperse the panic somewhat. It felt good to be in control of his lungs. Then he'd get out his dream journal and the not-pen he'd created from a small printer cartridge and a cocktail stick and write it all down, as was his duty as a lawful citizen. It could be worse, of course. On the bright side, for instance, he was not dreaming about horses.  
Colour-coding was a nice idea though, he thought. Black for boring, cyan for exciting, yellow for mildly unsettling, and magenta for horrific, soul-destroying nightmares. Everyone had bad dreams form time to time, he'd remind himself, trying to ignore how many of the pages of his journal were blotted with magenta ink, or how his fingers were slowly beginning to stain.

He'd pray with bloodstones every morning before he left the house, as was municipally enforced. Making a small cut above the second joint of his magenta-stained finger with the ceremonial dagger, he'd chant the necessary ritual words, smearing blood across the smooth surface of the small stone. The blood would sizzle and hiss as it vaporised. It may have helped. Maybe not. But it did save a lot of trouble with city council, and it didn't hurt to be optimistic. A burnt, coppery smell always lingered in the air after that. It reminded him of things he thought he may have remembered. Short moments of noise. Long moments of pain. A long smile. Incoherent fragments of broken glass and bloodstained concrete. But then again maybe he didn't, memories were fiddly business after all.  
Whatever it was, this morning it made his hands shake so badly he had to put the dagger down before he dropped it.


	2. Chapter 2

Things had been continuing in this manner for quite some time now, longer than Cecil would like to admit.  
Anyway, he had things to do. He couldn't spend all this time cowering from thing that possibly were not there, not when there were jobs that had to be done; jobs like appealing to station management to recruit new interns, presenting his radio segment, and buying toothpaste to line the doorframes and windowsills to deter the hoards of ravenous skin-eating spirits that were currently wreaking havoc all over Night Vale.  
Well, Cecil thought as he donned his municipally approved fedora, everyone had their own buried psychological traumas, all of which surfaced at some point. The nightmares, the possible mild hallucinations, they were just normal parts of life. There was no point being selfish about it, he reminded himself firmly, slipping out the door. He took particular care to lock it with both keys, as well as chalking a protective sigil above the doorknob, just in case.

The sun had risen nearly two hours earlier than time said it should have, but that tended to happen quite a bit (Much to the confusion of Night Vale's scientific community), so it wasn't anything to worry about.  
It was more oppressive than usual today, too. Whether this was simply some unusual meteorological phenomena, or a result of the many large mirrored billboards that had mysteriously appeared all over town that morning was debatable. Either way, Cecil was beginning to regret not applying SPF 90+ sunscreen before leaving the house.  
  
Cecil walked briskly, trying to concentrate on his tasks for the day, or the uncomfortable heat, or the sounds of his steps on the concrete footpath, or anything that wasn't the slithering anxiety that coiled around the back of his mind. Walking usually helped to clear his head, but it didn't seem to be working this morning. Thoughts roiled around inside his brain. Unpleasant ones, much like the dreams he'd been having.  
Making a conscious effort to drag himself out of his thoughts and into to corporal and slightly less upsetting world, he spotted Old woman Josie across the street. She was out walking her dog, angels accompanying her with their own leashed, radiant hounds.  
Cecil smiled tiredly, and waved them good morning as they passed. She waved back, the angels either ignored him or glared with their multiple eyes. The angels weren't a particularly friendly bunch, Cecil had observed, but that was understandable. He'd be pretty grumpy if the government had decided that  _he_  didn't exist.

Really, when it came down to it, your own existence was all you could rely on. As that old saying went: I think, therefore my existence as some form of sentient entity or at least a highly advanced artificial intelligence or government conspiracy is ensured. A comforting thought, Cecil decided.  
It was good to be sure of something.


End file.
